


Closing chapters

by Marayanna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Gerard Keay, But also, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, both at good and bad things, god this boy deserved so much better, it's Gerry's last days and he looks back at his life, like Gertrude or Mary, no beta we die like - well - Gerry, that's a tag that sums up this fic nicely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marayanna/pseuds/Marayanna
Summary: Gerry sits in the cold hospital bed and accepts his death.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Closing chapters

**Author's Note:**

> I have a new computer which means new keyboard and GOD I didn't realize I relied so much on muscle memory until I made a typo in every single sentence. I think I caught them all but if you find more, let me know.

Gerry sits in the cold hospital bed and accepts his death.

It's not a new feeling by any means. Terror and violence accompanied him for as long as he can remember, heavy on his shoulders since before he could read, since before he could _speak._ And there are only so many ways a person can cope with an upbringing like this. Gerry learned fast to stare death in the face and laugh, not because he was fearless, but because at some point it was the only thing he had _left._

And there were times when he thought it has already caught up with him, too – an avalanche of rubble almost crushing him down as he ran away from some monster or other. An Avatar brimming with the need to _hurt_ but sloppy enough to get away from. His mother, on a bad day and with a knife on hand, who was never sloppy at all.

He survived Letiners and apocalyptic rituals, angry gods and bloodthirsty men. He survived more than should be logically possible.

And a fucking brain cancer takes him down.

It feels so... human. Like something that could happen to anybody, anywhere. No grand explosions for him, no catchy last words, no lifelong nemeses he can take down with him. No immortality or power. And all he can think is - _thank god for that_. It's proof that he never became what Mary tried to shape him into, that despite everything that happened he's still his own person, still _human_. It's a small victory, but in the grand scheme of things perhaps the most important one he'll ever get.

He traces the eye tattoos on his fingers, their ink in stark contrast with his sickly pale skin, and his skin not much different from the whiteness of sheets it rests on. There's not much time left, he knows, he Knows, and it's the first time the supernatural knowledge brings him any sort of relief.

Gertrude will soldier on, just as she did for the last forty years of her war. Elias will keep on scheming and gloating, building an invisible empire only he can see the purpose of. Countless of others touched by the Entities will continue their neverending dance of pain and fear, the dance he had no choice but to flawlessly learn the steps of. This pointless tug of war will continue long after he's gone, long after any of _them_ are gone too, probably, and Gerry can feel his freedom on the tips on his fingers, so close it's exhilarating.

He doesn't have to worry about all of that anymore. He's out. He's done.

He's so, so _tired._

That's the biggest weakness of the Fears, he supposes. No matter how terrifying they are, how monstrous and brutal, there always comes a point where humans just can't muster the strength to be _more_ afraid anymore. The point at which new pain tastes just like any other pain, new fear just like any other fear. The world continues in all of its horrifying glory, and the victim is just numb to it. 

And so he sits in his hospital bed, accepting his death, scared and numb and ready disappear.

It's not fair, he thinks. He never asked for this life, never chose to be a descendant of some long forgotten monstrous family with more secrets than actual importance. He never asked to learn magic instead of arithmetics, never wanted to get used to the smell of burning skin. He wanted...

He doesn't know what he wanted. He never got to find out.

Gerry wonders about souls. He's not religious any more than he has to be, and the idea of the afterlife controlled by yet another god unsettles him deeply. But if the souls _do_ exist... what rules do they obey? If the souls _do_ exist, then could the soul of Gerard Keay have been born into a completely normal, bland family somewhere on the other side of the world? Was there a possibility that he could have lived through his whole life never learning anything about the supernatural?

He wonders who would that Gerard be. He wonders if the two of them could even be recognized as the same person.

He imagines Gerard – normal Gerard, _safe_ Gerard – with a leather jacket and dyed hair, because through his whole life these were the only things that he chose himself, the only things that were truly _his_. But he'd have no eye shaped tattoos. No scars. 

He imagines Gerard Keay going to school, making friends who call him Gerry. Gerard Keay, getting his first crush and being allowed to flounder and stutter through it. He imagines Gerard Keay getting a degree or dropping out or settling down or traveling the world. He wonders what would his hobby be, if he has any undiscovered talents. He never got a chance to discover what he's really good at, what makes him happy. 

All he knows that the opportunities are endless, and it hurts. 

Or maybe, a wry, bitter part of him whispers, he would be an abusive boyfriend or get stuck in a job he'd hate or die in a car accident at the age of five and never make it into adulthood. Because dreaming is easy but perfect lives never come to pass. Pain and sorrow aren't reserved only for those touched by the Fears, he knows that very well. He's spent years observing people going about their lives, struggling and falling and standing up again, their battles made no less difficult or important for the fact that they had nothing to do with the supernatural. 

There is plenty of grief and hardship in this world even without the Fears' meddlings and every day people are busy dealing with them, completely unaware how much worse their life could be if only they'd peer beyond the veil, if only they'd take _one wrong step_. Ignorant in the most blessed way possible.

He is angry at them. He is jealous of them. 

He is _desperate_ to keep them ignorant for as long as they are alive. 

Because... he knows full well it's too late for him. Hell, it was too late for him even before he was born and it only got more hopeless as it went on. 

It could not be for others, though. Not everyone was damned from the very beginning, and he has the power to make sure that as many people as possible won't get to be damned at all. He has his Sight and he has the knowledge pushed at him by Mary, and he has a choice, always, always has a choice.

There always comes a point when one has to ask themselves – what kind of person do I want to be today? And damn, it's so easy, so _tempting_ to answer – a person who doesn't care anymore. A person who has had enough. A person who did all they could and _nobody_ can demand more. 

And all of these answers are true. 

That doesn't make them _right_ though. And Gerry doesn't even know what the right answer _is_ anymore, just that every time he Sees something, he gathers himself, time after time, and does what needs to be done. Even if people's feeling of safety is an illusion, there's nothing wrong with never learning the truth. 

And oh, what a blasphemous way for an Eye acolyte to think. 

But he _did_ help people, and that's what matters. Not everyone, not those too far gone or unwilling to listen to a seemingly unhinged stranger. But there were some, who he was able to warn or lead away from danger. A pitifully small number, like specks of light he managed to shield from the otherwise choking darkness of the world. And he will hold these specks of light desperately close to his chest as he goes into the void, these too few smiles and unsure thank you's, and he will repeat to himself that maybe, maybe he's done enough. That maybe it was worth it.

His life was full of pain and misery, and he was so scared and hopeless amongst it all, but maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to leave behind something good. 

The thought eases the pain that's gripping him, just a little bit, though it never goes away completely. He's in pain because of his illness, of course, but that's only a cherry on top of all the other scars and aches he carries with him like a second skin. They pull and throb but they're still better than the _other_ pain, the one he has no name for but carries with him anyway, wedged deep in his chest like an invisible knife. It's entangled with sadness, with weariness, with fog that sometimes paralyzes his mind and threatens to pull him under. He's in pain and he thinks maybe he's always been in pain, maybe there never was a time when he didn't yet know the scent of blood, the taste of tears. When he didn't feel Mary's bloodied hand, heavy on his shoulder, guiding him through horrors no child should see even in their worst nightmares.

Yes, he's always been in pain, and there are no words to express how relieved it is to know that soon it will finally _stop_. They won't get him there, thrums against his mind. Death is an escape, death is peaceful, death is _safe_. He'll be free once and for all, just like he always dreamed. He'll finally, finally get to _rest._

The hospital staff looks at him with pity they think they can conceal beneath professionalism, and he doesn't try to tell them they don't need to. It feels nice, getting sympathy, even if only this once, even if for entirely wrong reasons. He'll hold this close to his chest, too.

And with this excitement for his inevitable end comes a question – would he ever choose this escape on his own, if the choice wasn't taken from his hands? Would the pain grow and fester and become just too much to handle? Would he realize, one day, that all that awaits him is one unavoidable tragedy after another, and decide that it's just not worth it anymore?

He knows that he's good at what he does, he's useful. And there is always one more thing he could be useful _for_ , one more thing he could _help_ with. Ease one more person's pain, destroy one more bloodthirsty book. Make the world that much more bearable, if not for himself than at least for others.

Does that count as an answer? Would it be enough to make him keep going? 

Gerry wonders, but the answers don't come. 

He can feel the summer breeze coming through the window of his room, see it move the curtains in lazy waves. The air is rich with the smell of the upcoming storm, but the sun is not yet hidden beneath the clouds, and he can feel it warm and steady on his skin, the way he always imagined embraces to be. And, whatever else, he feels glad to have this moment. Whatever else, he feels that with this he could be content. 

It's always been the small things, for him. He never got much more. 

And that, perhaps, counts as an answer. 

Not that it matters, in the end. The day comes, at long last, the last day he'll ever get. And he discovers that despite his acceptance, his relief, his hope for freedom, despite _everything_ that happened to him - he's still very much afraid of dying. He discovers that he doesn't want to be alone when the darkness consumes him, unforgiving and choking. He almost calls for his mother but- no. Her presence would only make the darkness scarier, he knows. 

And so, scared and alone, Gerard Keay ends. 

He really should've known better by now.

It's a special kind of hell, to finally claw your way out of a life full of pain, just to discover there's only more agony waiting beyond it.

Gerry thinks he would cry, if only crying was possible in this rotten place hanging between realities. But all he has is his rage burning under his skin, white, hot, and completely useless in the face of anyone who holds his book – his life - in their hands. All he can do is to bargain, and then argue, and then keep silent, as he finally, _finally_ refuses to be useful. 

For his whole life, he's done nothing more than fight and struggle and fight some more. They can't ask anything more of him. He won't _give_ anything more. 

There _always_ comes a point when one has to ask themselves – what kind of person do I want to be today? And Gerry _still_ doesn't know the right answer, goddamnit, but he knows the choice is still his and his alone, and this time he chooses – he's a person who's had _enough_.

Die a hero or live long enough to become a villain, that's how the saying goes. He wonders if his refusal to help makes him evil, complicit in every catastrophe that could be averted with his help. And as there is no sleep, no unconsciousness in the book, he thinks about it a lot.

If he were a good guy, he would grit his teeth and help anyway, he supposes. In the few movies he managed to see, the good guys always threw themselves on the grenade, they swallowed down the pain and led the innocents to safety. Gerry never had any illusions that he was a good guy, but he tried. He really, really did.

It's, just. It hurts _so much._

He thought he knew pain before, but it was nothing compared to this all-consuming _wrongness_ that burrows inside him and writhes, this offensive feeling of violation born from existing in the world that has no place for him anymore. 

Could he have avoided this fate? If he was smarter, or stronger, or faster, would everything have turned out differently? Maybe if he got along with Gertrude better, she'd like him enough to spare him this torture. Maybe if he listened to Mary, she would teach him how to control this liminal space, how to break away from it. 

Maybe if he was never born...

No. _No._

He refuses to think like this, he _refuses._

Specks of light, he reminds himself as the fresh waves of agony overwhelm him. There are still specks of light he left behind, there are still small bits of kindness he managed to salvage in the act of resistance to the universe, and it means something. It _has to_ mean something. 

And then he meets the Archivist. 

Gerry is exhausted and in pain and full of anger, and yet he still feels bad for the Archivist when he looks at him. Poor guy, he thinks, completely wrapped up in everything and with no way out. Still has to dance that merciless dance. Still has to fight to _survive._

Gerry doesn't have to fight anymore. Please, he thinks, by whatever goodness that still remains in this world, let him not have to fight anymore. He bargains, just like so many times before, and this time he doesn't have to restore to arguing or keeping silent, because it _works._ They make a deal, possible perhaps only because they are both equally desperate. And in a moment of weakness or hope or stubborn faith in humanity, he asks Jon to call him Gerry, just like the friends he never got to make. And Jon does, and he _smiles_ while doing it, and his smile is like an act of resistance to the universe too. Like the world has thrown everything it had to break this man and he still stubbornly decides to smile. Gerry thinks he could admire that. He thinks they could learn a lot from each other if they ever got the chance. 

What an infinitely cruel joke of the universe, to put two men desperately fighting for hope just as they're long past the point of helping each other. 

Because as it is now, all Gerry can focus on is his freedom, once again on the tip of his fingers. And all he knows is that he doesn't have the strength to be betrayed again. He holds on to Jon's promise desperately, like a drowning man clutching at straws if only that man intended to use them to slash at himself. 

And then, finally, he feels the flames. 

They are scorching, they are agonizing, they are _freeing_.

Gerry can't help but laugh as the fire overtakes him, his smile like bared fangs, his gaze defiant and unapologetic, staring right into the nothingness opening before him between the pages. No man should have to accept his death twice, but it _does_ get easier with practice, as it turns out. And this time Gerry grips his freedom and _does not let go_. 

_Good luck Jon,_ he thinks, and he really means it. That man who he met so briefly might very well be the only person in the whole world who doesn't wish him ill, who sees his worth beyond his usefulness. Jon is right there on the other side of his page, and so in his final hour and maybe for the first time in his whole life, Gerry is not alone.

_Good luck,_ Gerry thinks, _and when you go, do it right._  
  
  


And so, Gerard Keay finally ends. 

**Author's Note:**

> [The Hoosiers - A Sadness Runs Through Him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQUPwJ7JsjA)


End file.
